


Sainte Nuit

by ponderinfrustration



Series: Aftermath [2]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Baby, Christmas, F/M, Gen, Motherhood, Mourning, Religious Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 17:17:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13081554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: Erik has been dead for more than a year, and this is the first Christmas Eve that Christine has with her baby son.





	Sainte Nuit

**Author's Note:**

> For those curious about this particular incarnation of Christine, please check out my fic 'Etched with Tears'. It is not necessary (I hope) to have read that in order to enjoy this, but it might enhance that enjoyment.

Last Christmas, she was barely aware the day had come and could not bring herself to care. She was so wrapped up in hollow grief, so full of thoughts of Erik, of longing for him. There was anxiety for the baby growing inside of her, that tiny precious thing that she could not see, could not touch, could dream of and imagine and pray for. She spent a great deal of Christmas Day lying in bed, her hand resting on the roundness her stomach had become, singing softly to the tiny being within, and hoping he could hear her, recognize her, hoping that somehow Erik knew she was longing for him.

She had not wanted to intrude on Nadir on a holy day that was not his, but he came to her, and sat with her, and told her about Erik in Persia, about the gentleness with which he treated Reza, and when the tears came he held her and whispered, “I know you wish he could have been here today. I know it is not what it should be without him, but I hope you can, maybe, enjoy it a little bit, even without him.”

But she had not attended midnight Mass. And it did not feel like Christmas without it, did not feel like Christmas at all and besides, it is not right to celebrate the occasion when one is in mourning.

That was why, when Raoul dropped in that evening to visit her, he had not brought any gift other than flowers. And they sat by the fire, and instead of wishing her a happy Christmas he asked her how she felt, and said, his voice low, “I wish there was something I could do to make it easier for you.”

But this year is different. This year is different in every way, barring the absence of Erik. And how she wishes he was here, wishes he could see Konstin, could hold him and sing to him and know him, and it is a physical ache in her chest the thought of what he is missing, the thought of what they are missing by not having him, and sometimes it feels so heavy it could weigh her down, feels as if the sheer longing for him could strangle her, and she might let it, might give into it, but Konstin needs her, and for Konstin she must be strong.

For Konstin she will make an effort, will try to bottle the grief that still feels as if it is eating her from the inside. He is still so very very young (barely nine months) but sometimes she swears he is the most perceptive person she knows.

And the way his babbling ceases, and he looks at her in silent amazement, when she starts to sing, will never cease to make her smile. And the way his eyes light up at the very mention of _Papa_ tugs at her heart.

She tells him about Erik all of the time, whispers to him about his father. Small little stories about music and art, and sometimes tears prickle her eyes, her throat tight with just how much has happened, how much has changed, how much is wrong without him, but she cannot cry in front of Konstin because then his eyes might start to water, or he gets that tiny frown, so when she thinks she’s going to cry she smiles at him, and kisses his forehead, and hides her tears.

(On the rare occasions when one or two tears do escape her and slip into his blond curls, Konstin giggles at the strange sensation, and Christine cannot help the bubble of laughter that rises inside of her. No matter how terrible she feels, Konstin can always draw some small smile from her.)

Her little boy will not remember this Christmas. She knows that. He will not remember anything about it, is far too young. But maybe some happiness will stay with him, inside of him always at this time of year, and so help her but she will not let his first Christmas be marked by grief. He deserves so much more than that.

It starts tonight, Christmas Eve. Adelaide will be gone home to her family, and Nadir has insisted that Christine have something for Christmas this year. “It is an important time for you,” he said, his eyes soft and kind. “Even if it is not in my culture, you should have something for it. I wouldn’t like to think of you missing out just because you’re living with us.” And so she acquired a candle for the window, and a Christmas wreath, deciding it is more than enough.

Her dresses have changed from black to grey, but she is still in mourning.

She is aware that there are some who still consider her grief a lie, a cover story to explain away Konstin’s origins. But she has no time for those people, who believe that Erik never existed and that his son is really the son of Raoul or Nadir. One look at Konstin would show them that is all false. He could not be more Erik’s son if he shared the same distortion. But those people don’t care about truth, only about a good scandal, and she burns to throttle each and every one of them for making her boy that scandal.

She will go to midnight Mass, and hold her head up high in her grey dress, and all of those whispers be damned.

She will be with Raoul, and Philippe and Sorelli, one of the first times Sorelli has been out since having the twins. Nadir and Darius will take care of Konstin, and there will be nothing to worry about. Those people will not dare whisper about her on such a holy night.

An hour. She has an hour before she will leave, before Raoul will come to collect her. He invited her to come along with him, saying that it had been Sorelli’s idea, but she knows that it was likely his, and she is grateful for him. If he had not invited her, she may not have decided to attend, might have decided to spend the night at home, cradling Konstin close, or else at Erik’s grave, telling him about their boy and aching for him. She will make the journey down to him tomorrow, with some fresh flowers. And in the early days of the new year, perhaps, she will trek down with Konstin for the first time. He has never visited his father before, and would not understand it, but she will need to bring him sometime, and she wants him to know, even just some tiny part of him.

It is his right to visit the place where his father lies.

Someday, far in the future, she will give that house on the lake to him, the house where his father lived and died, the house where he himself was conceived, where she and Erik spent the whole of their short married life. It will be Konstin’s house, Konstin’s sanctuary, Konstin’s to decide what he wants to do with it. And she hopes that he will make music there, will have some peace there.

But that is all so very far away, as distant, nearly, as Erik himself. Konstin does not need a sanctuary, not now. He is sleeping in the cradle beside her bed, dreaming whatever baby dreams it is that fills his mind, Ayesha curled up at his feet as if he is her tiny master and she is bound to obey him.

Konstin is the tiny master of everyone. And he is so infinitely precious that it could not be any other way.

She settles on the edge of her bed, and leans over the cradle. Lightly, as lightly as she can so as not to disturb him, she traces her fingers over Konstin’s little ones. She used to do the same with Erik’s, hold them and stroke her own fingers over them. His were long and thin, almost brittle, but Konstin’s are small, still so very small, and delicate, and she cannot help but marvel at them, at everything about him.

She might have thought that after nine months she would have grown used to her boy, grown used to how perfect he is in every way, but she could never grow used to him, never. He is a constant source of wonder, at once the smallest and biggest miracle she has ever known, and he is hers. Hers and Erik’s, the product of their love.

That is what it all comes down to really. Love. Her love for Erik, and his love for her, and Konstin, little Konstin the result of it.

With the very tips of her fingers she brushes away one blond curl that has fallen over his forehead. Will his hair stay blond? Has he gotten that from her? Or it will it darken like Erik’s into a brown so deep it is almost black? Blond or dark he will be beautiful either way, and for all that she aches to spin this time out forever, keep him small and safe, she longs to know how he will turn out. Will he be tall like Erik? Will his eyes change from the blue that they are now? Will he have long musician’s fingers? Will he favour music over all else or devote himself to art or poetry or medicine or engineering or something? Whatever he chooses he must be happy. He must always be happy.

His tiny fist clenches and unclenches and he snuffles slightly, his little nose wrinkling and a small furrow appearing on his brow, but then his face smooths, and he makes a soft little noise in his throat, something indistinguishable, like a whimper but not, and then is silent again, his breaths even and soft. So many nights she has lain awake, thinking about Erik, and listening to those soft even breaths. Have any breaths ever sounded so precious?

More and more, each passing day, she wonders, is this how her mother thought? Her father? When she was only a baby herself? A tiny thing that needed so much protecting from the world. Did they lie awake listening to her breathe? Did they wonder over how she would grow up? Did they sing to her to calm her to sleep? Did they marvel over every little thing about her? So many questions, all clogging up her throat, but she has no one to ask them to. It is as if she is existing without a history, as if her life only began with Erik and the rest has fallen away, left only a great blank space where it ought to be. Her parents are as unreachable as the stars, and there is not even Erik now. There is only Konstin. Tiny little Konstin, and he is her whole life, the single most important thing in the world.

Slowly, carefully, she slips her hands under him, and picks him up, keeping him close to her body the whole time, and she cradles him to her chest. He makes that little noise again, the one like a whimper, but does not wake, and she holds him as close as she can. Last year he was living inside of her, and this year he is sleeping outside of her. What a difference a year makes. And next year, he will likely be sleeping too by this time, unless she is going to bring him to Mass, and if he is awake he will surely be running around the place and chattering at everyone, full of excitement.

She is all too aware of how fleeting time can be.

Tears prickle her eyes, and she blinks them away. She has promised herself that she will not cry, not tonight. Tonight is a night of celebration, of hope and peace and love, an occasion to mark the birth of another little boy, a miracle like Konstin and wholly precious but so very very different. She will not cry on what is supposed to be a night of happiness, not when she has her son in her arms and not in a little while when she is sitting in a church beside Sorelli, Raoul and Philippe sitting together but separate from them. And she and Sorelli will be united in the fact that they have both left their precious little boys at home, three little boys between them. And she will sit, and pray for her parents who never could know their grandson and pray that they are happy for her, and pray for Mamma Valerius and the Professor who both gave her so much, and pray for Erik, for him most of all, that he is at peace.

And with any luck, she will return home to here to find that Konstin has slept through her absence in the company of Nadir and Darius.

A knock comes to the door, waking her from her thoughts, and Nadir’s voice is low. “Raoul is here, Christine.” Another thing that has changed. Last year he was still the Vicomte to Nadir, and now he is just Raoul.

She nods, though Nadir cannot see her. “Just give me a moment.”

“All right.” And she listens as his footsteps lead back to the parlour, before she bows her head, and presses her lips gently, as gently as she can, to Konstin’s soft forehead.

“Sleep well, sweetheart,” she whispers. “Mamma will be back before long, I promise.”

* * *

 

Christine has been gone for half an hour when Konstin cries. It is only a short little cry, over in a moment, but Nadir is relieved. He has been slogging through a novel, a long monstrosity of a thing by Victor Hugo, and any excuse to put it down, even if that excuse is in the form of a crying baby, is welcome. He marks his page and sets down the book, and pushes his reading glasses up into his hair before he turns his attention to Konstin, lying in the basket beside his armchair.

And finds the baby awake, blinking blearily up at him, squirming beneath the blankets that are tucked in up to his chin. Nadir reaches down, and eases back his blankets. That seems to be all it takes for Konstin to yawn, as if he is utterly exhausted at the thought of being awake, and close his eyes again. Nadir cannot help but chuckle.

“You must have frightened yourself,” he whispers, softly stroking the baby’s cheek. “That’s what you did, isn’t it? But yet, why do I have the feeling that if I fix your blankets, you’re just going to wake up again?” It is usually the way it goes. Konstin will wake when he is babysitting him and letting Christine get some rest, and he will ease back the blankets, and it will look as if the baby has fallen back to sleep, but the moment the blankets are replaced he will wake. Almost every time, like his own little protest. “Well, young man, I do believe we have a solution for this.” And he picks up one blanket and lays it on the arm of his chair, before reaching back into the basket and carefully picking up Konstin. He settles the boy onto his lap, one arm under him propping him, and lays the blanket over him. And Konstin sighs and nuzzles into him, already seeming more settled.

Pain briefly twists in Nadir’s heart. At moments like this, Konstin can be so very much like Reza when Reza was his age. He, too, preferred to be held, preferred the closeness of contact to lying in his basket. It is one of the few things that Nadir can truly, clearly, remember from when Reza was a baby. So much of that time is shrouded in grief, the numbing grief that Rookheeya left in her wake. He could not enjoy Reza as a baby, not truly. Everything was marked by her absence, and at times it was almost unbearable, having this tiny son who needed him so badly when what _he_ needed was his wife, restored to him and healthy, the one thing he could not have, the one thing Reza could not have. She would have loved their son so much, had spent months and months looking forward to him, waiting for him, anticipating him. And in the end she was barely strong enough to see him, was only able to hold him once, Nadir’s hands under her arms supporting her. Once she held their son, that she had struggled so hard to bring into the world, once she kissed him on his little forehead, once she whispered to him how very much she loved him, and Nadir has wondered, thousands upon thousands of times since, if she knew she would not see him grow up, knew she only had one chance to tell him these things.

His throat tightens, but he swallows back the tears building in his throat. Now is not the time to cry for her, when he is holding little Konstin in his arms, a baby untouched by all that happened then. He does not want Konstin to sense the pain lurking in his heart, for his ancient grief to upset the little boy. It is wrong for him to let his own past interfere, his own past to hurt a helpless child now. All Konstin should ever know is happiness, and love, the things that Erik only truly got to know too late. They should be with Konstin all of his life, from this time and always.

The Christmas that Christine celebrates is something that is not considered an occasion in his religion, the birth of a Prophet but not a holy day, something he only really learned about when he came to France on the off-chance of finding Erik. But all of the things she has told him about it – the joy, the peace, the hope – they are the very things he wishes he could give her everyday, and the peace most of all. It was beyond his power to give those things to Erik, and not for the first time he wishes that Erik were here in his place, here to complete his family, the one missing piece. And if this solemn though joyous occasion can bring Christine some comfort, can be something that Konstin can look forward to every year as he grows older, then so help him but Nadir will do all he can to ensure that they can celebrate it as happily as possible.

Konstin whimpers, and disturbs his thoughts, and Nadir smiles down at the little boy. In the kitchen he can hear Darius busy with the tea things. He has been busy baking biscuits all night, a treat for Christine, and for Raoul when he visits tomorrow afternoon, and there are enough that Raoul can take some with him back to his brother and Sorelli. When Sorelli herself was expecting she expressed a deep fondness for Darius’ biscuits, and nibbles them at every opportunity. Nadir has seen her only a handful of times since the birth of the twins, but she smiled when he brought her the biscuits.

His eyes wander up to the clock on the mantelpiece, and he is surprised to see that another half hour has ticked away while he has been lost in thought. He does not know how long this midnight Mass goes on, and Christine herself was vague on the details, but no matter. Konstin is quiet, and all is well.

* * *

 

It is a struggle through Mass to keep her thoughts from wandering. It is not that she does not enjoy it, does not hang on the priest’s words, the familiar old story about traveling to Bethlehem, the innkeepers who refused to grant Mary and Joseph admittance, the birth in the stable and the angel appearing to the shepherds on the hilltop, the star that guided the wisemen across the land. She has always enjoyed the story. It is as familiar to her as herself, worn into her bones. But the last time she attended this Mass, the last time she heard this story, it was before Erik, before she loved him, when he was still the faceless Angel of Music and some part of her wondered if it was blasphemous to take singing lessons from an angel, however close it helped her to feel to her father.

The whole world has shifted since then, and the very air feels different on her skin. She looks back on the young woman she was then — all of twenty years old — and sees a child, though it was only two years ago. It was a world where Erik still breathed, where the thought of Raoul touching her hand made her feel faintly lightheaded, where Nadir was a stranger in the crowd and Konstin not even a concept, and the only mourning she knew was that which lingered for her father, the grief that she thought had sucked the life out of her.

But she has learned so very much since then. So much about life, and death, and love, and grief. And the girl who knelt in a pew at midnight Mass is a stranger to her, someone who shares a name and a face and a certain amount of history, but a stranger.

And as the priest speaks, and choir sings, it is Erik that her thoughts are full of, and not the husband and wife who travelled miles while she was expecting to his birth town. It is Erik that she sees in her mind, Erik and his hesitant touch, Erik and his faint awkward smile, Erik and his soft eyes, sometimes sad, sometimes gentle, sometimes blazing, sometimes full of tears but always full of love, and it is Erik’s voice that she hears. _…my dear…my love…dear girl…oh, Christine…_

They should have been married in this church.

His funeral should have been in this church. The thought comes unbidden, and her breath catches, and Sorelli must notice because her hand is a steadying weight on Christine’s arm even as the tears well in her eyes. If he were any other man his funeral would have been in this church, and if she squints she can almost see a coffin, lying before the altar, but she blinks, a tear dripping down her cheek, and the image vanishes.

It is not right to think of his death tonight, not right. Tonight is a night for a birth, a night for the beginning of life not the end of it, and she swallows hard against the tears still tight in her throat, and draws a shuddering breath, and tries to tune back in to the priest’s words. Let him guide her thoughts now. He will steer her free from dangerous territory.

* * *

 

Outside the church, Raoul hugs her, and she sinks bonelessly into his arms, too heavy to hold herself up. Around them the snow is falling, drifting slowly to the ground, and there are people chatting, trading well wishes, but they all fade away into nothing, are of no importance.

“How do you feel?” His voice is faint, muffled by her bonnet and she pulls back so that she can look him in the eye.

“All right,” she whispers, her breath misting in the night air. “All right.”

And he must surely see how unsteady she is, how she still feels as if one strong wind will blow her away, because the corner of his mouth is creased, and he glances over at where Sorelli and Philippe are greeting another couple whom they know, before he looks back down at her, and his eyes are soft with anxiety.

“Would you like me to take you home?”

Home. Home to Konstin, and she will not have to worry about breaking down, about giving in to the pain twisting in her heart, and she nods, and Raoul nods back at her. “Please.”

“I’ll tell Philippe that we’re taking the carriage.” And Raoul releases her gently from his grip, and crosses to his brother. He taps Philippe lightly on the shoulder, and leans in and whispers something to him, and Sorelli looks over and smiles reassuringly at her.

Philippe nods, and Christine watches as he and Sorelli make their excuses to the couple and then they and Raoul come back over to her, and Sorelli hugs her, and does not speak, but she does not need to.

* * *

 

The carriage journey is a quiet affair. Sorelli sits beside Christine, squeezing her hand, while Philippe and Raoul whisper among themselves, something inconsequential about the estate, and when they pull up outside the house on the Rue de Rivoli, Sorelli kisses her gently on the cheek, and whispers, “Sleep well. And give my love to Konstin.”

“I will. And give my love to the twins.” Little Guillaume and Antoine, three months old and home in the care of the nursemaid.

Philippe takes her hand and lightly kisses the back of it. “Good night, Christine,” he says, his voice warm and sincere.

“Good night, Philippe.” She has already thanked him for allowing her to travel in his carriage, and he nods at her now.

Raoul opens the carriage door, and steps out. “I will accompany you to the door. The steps might be slippy from the snow.” And she wants to tell him that when the snow is fresh and untraveled on there is no risk of her slipping, but she knows he is only being kind, so she nods, and he takes her hand to help her out.

“Thank you,” she says, as she gains her balance on the ground, and smooths the creases from her dress. “Whatever would I do without my gallant knight?” The words catch her by surprise, and Raoul’s eyes widen, but instead of commenting on how unusual it is for her to say something like that, he simply smiles and offers her his arm.

“At your service, my lady.”

They climb the steps to the door, and Raoul embraces her once more. “I know it—it must be such a difficult time for you,” he whispers, “but I hope you can have some happiness this year.” And tears prickle her eyes, and she cannot speak, but his fingertips are light as he brushes them away. “Now. Go in, and give Konstin a kiss from his godfather.” And he kisses her on the cheek, and releases her.

And she wants to thank him, for how good he has been to her, and how he has helped her, and the way he has simply been here for her, but the words are out of her reach and she cannot grasp them, so she settles for giving him a watery smile, and he nods, and she thinks he understands.

She finds her key in her pocket, and opens the door, but before she steps inside she leans in and in a moment of impulse she kisses his cheek. A flush burns his cheeks, leaves the tips of his ears pink, and it is the last sight she sees before she steps into the house and closes the door behind her.

The blood rushes in her ears, her heart fluttering, and all at once it crashes into her that she kissed Raoul. She kissed him. Every fibre of her is aching for Erik, aching to have him back, but she kissed Raoul and what possessed her? She has not betrayed Erik. One kiss does not constitute a betrayal, but her stomach churns and she feels faintly nauseous, and it is all she can do to swallow down the bile burning in her throat as she walks into the parlour.

Konstin. If she sees Konstin she will be fine, everything will be fine.

She swallows, and composes herself. Her eyes fall to Nadir first, sleeping in his armchair by the fire, Konstin’s basket at his feet empty. And her stomach lurches (where is he? Where is he?) but in the next moment she finds Darius, sitting in the opposite armchair, and her little boy (thank God) cradled asleep in his arms.

Darius looks up at her, and smiles. “He woke a couple of times,” his voice is low as he nods down at Konstin, and Konstin stirs in his arms but does not wake, “but he’s been settled for the last little while.”

“Thank you for looking after him,” she whispers as she crosses the room, and eases Konstin from his arms, nestling him against her. He whimpers low in his throat, his eyelids fluttering as he nuzzles in against her, and then he is silent again, and she bows her head, and kisses his forehead. Once, twice, three times. For her, for Raoul, for Sorelli and Philippe. And she presses a fourth kiss to his cheek. For Erik. “Is he asleep long?” she asks, and nods towards Nadir.

“About an hour. But don’t worry. I’ll help him to bed. You just take care of the little prince.” And there is a faint smile in his voice, the faint smile that Darius only ever has for Konstin, and she smiles back at him, and in that moment, everything is right.

Then Konstin whimpers, and half-cries, and she shushes him as she walks to her room, and throws a good night to Darius over her shoulder. And she closes the door behind her, and hums to Konstin, rocking him in her arms until his crying eases and he is blinking up at her through damp eyes. She kisses his cheek again. “Mamma’s home,” she whispers, “and she loves you very much, my little Konstin. And your Papa would love you very much too if he were here. And if you stay quiet a little longer and let me take off this dress and get ready for bed, I’ll sing you a song all right? Douce Nuit. I know that one is your favourite.”

He babbles something unintelligible, his little hands grabbing for her necklace, and smiles, showing all three of his tiny teeth. And she kisses his forehead, and inhales his warm, soft scent, and knows that with him in her arms, it will be a happy Christmas indeed.


End file.
